To Test a Man's Character
by Raxacoriocofallapatorius
Summary: People always assumed that Sherlock Holmes was magical. People always overlook the short doctor constantly by Sherlock's side. And if they do notice, the most memorable thing about him is the fact that he is always seen with the detective. Which is why people are surprised when the told coming of the most powerful warlock turns out to be ordinary John Watson. People are stupid.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: This came to me, as most stories do, late at night as I was on the brink of welcoming Morpheus's embrace. But I was so hooked I had to write it down. I LOVE Merlin and Sherlock and Harry Potter and I just felt this bubbling up and had to let it out. :3 I hope you guys like it [and even if you don't, I do]. And I know I should be working on other things but whatever. Life.)**

A man garbed in a loose cotton shirt, brown leggings, and leather boots quickly made his way up a twisting stairway. Soon he reached a large wooden door with a slightly rusted handle and knocked twice. After hearing a noise of consent, the dark haired man entered the tower room. The walls were made of stone, sparingly covered by yellowed parchments with sprawled writing and diagrams on them, and the floor was wooden but covered in a few musty rugs. There was a small window that showed a clean, green courtyard surrounded by a sturdy wall that had nothing but wilderness beyond it. In a dark, damp room an old man lay in a small bed.

The dark haired man made his way to the side of the bedridden greybeard. He carefully placed the tray on the frail man's lap and moved the large bowl from the tray to the side table. The older gentleman watched the young man as he began to dip a rag in the bowl and lightly dab his forehead. The cool water, smelling slightly of herbs, dripped down the old man's face, following the grooves he'd gained over the many years of his life. After a few minutes of silence, only broken by the sound of water splashing, the old man coughed and spoke.

"Gavin," he wheezed. The young man looked up, his deep blue eyes wide. "Gavin. I need to tell you something very important." Gavin nodded, lowering the rag slowly into the bowl before folding his hands in his lap. "I am dying, Gavin." Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but the older man held up a hand to silence him. "You know this. You can feel the sickness in me."

Gavin nodded, looking down at his hands and grimacing. "But Baba," the man used his childhood nickname for his grandfather, "I don't want you to die." Yet Gavin couldn't deny what his grandfather said. There was something dark and slimy slithering through his grandfather's veins, infecting his very being and slowly choking the life out of him.

The old man coughed again. "In all honesty, it is far beyond time for me to go. I've seen the fall of Uther and the rise of Arthur. I have watched as Albion tore itself apart and then unified to face off against a stronger foe. I have lived by my wife and our daughter and I was blessed enough to see her son." At this, the old man cupped Gavin's tear-stained face. "I am Merlin, Emrys, the last Dragonlord, and I am dying."

Gavin sobbed aloud, clutching at his grandfather's wrinkled hand. "No. No, no Baba. You can't go. There is so much you still need to show me." He blinked rapidly, searching for something more to say. "You said I would be a Dragonlord. You said you would teach me." Desperation leeched into his voice.

"No, Gavin." Merlin rasped, giving a sad smile. "You will be a Dragonlord. That is the curse of this power. It can only be learned when the current Dragonlord passes." Gavin frantically shook his head once more.

"Then I can wait. It can always wait," he pleaded. "I don't want you to die."

"Ah, but I have lived far longer than I should," Merlin gave a weak chuckle. "And I fear what might happen if I see too many more days." Coughs racked the old man's body and even after his breath evened, tremors remained. "But that is not why I am telling you of my imminent passing." Merlin there paused, taking a few deep breaths before locking eyes with his grandson Gavin. "I have had a vision."

* * *

John had always wanted to help people, ever since a young age, and, in a world where magic and science coexist and collaborate, so much was possible. He'd known plenty of people who trained and became powerful healers, their skill as their main aid, and many more who weren't compatible with the energy manipulation so didn't hone that skill and still ended up as valuable doctors. However, John found himself in a unique situation.

In a world where magic has been around for centuries, very little is known about it and what is known isn't always accurate. Even after magic and science settled their differences and decided to work together, not much was learned. There is no way to predict who will manifest and who will not, who is compatible to learn and who is not. It is genetic, that much the studies have proven, but the gene is undefinable as recessive or dominant or random or a common mutation with some more susceptible to it than others.

So when John Hamish Watson is born into a family with no recorded history of magic or energy manipulation, nothing was expected. But they did not get nothing. Two days after returning home, Hamish and Annamarie go into Little Johnny's room to find his older sister Harriet floating in midair, screeching her head off as John watches on with wide eyes. Such a powerful manifestation, especially with a completely benign heritage and so early, was almost unheard of. But it didn't end there.

John didn't have the usual lack of control that came hand in hand with natural magical abilities. The only time his magic ever flared unexpectedly was when he lost his temper. And while his temper was explosive, sometimes literally, and quite short, John quickly learned how to control that as well. So John grew up seen as completely human: magicless and unprivileged.

But that didn't stop John. He paid attention in the mandatory control and manipulation classes in primary school. He moved into London for college, taking medical classes during the day and sneaking night classes on healing so to not run into anybody who knew him. John joined the army, partially to pay for college and his medical degree, and was deployed to Afghanistan where they had secondary, in-field training. And for the first time in his life, John didn't have to hide at all.

These people didn't know him as John Hamish Watson, the benign human doctor. They knew him as Private Watson, army medic and healer. John was able to use his powers as needed, not worrying about the repercussions of being seen. John was able to just be himself, to finally release that constant current of buzzing energy from his veins in ways other than levitating objects in the comfort and privacy in his room. In Afghanistan, John truly became a warlock. And he felt free.

In his ten years of service, John had gained respect as a doctor and healer, the skills and abilities of a soldier, and more control of his magic as well as more strength. All those years of practice on a regular basis was like working out a muscle; it grew in strength and dexterity the more he used it. Now John was able to do things he couldn't even imagine and John honestly couldn't imagine his life any better.

Sure there were battles and wounded men and explosions and blood and red _red __**red**_, but John could cope with that. Those years in Afghanistan, where John could be who he was instead of who he was expected to be, were the best years of his life so far. But of course it all had to end.

* * *

John woke to the swirling sound of beeping and bustling bodies and frantic calls. His vision swam before him, a mesmerizing mixture of bright lights and darkness. He slowly blinked a few times, shaking his head, and tried to focus on the blob in front of him. John closed his eyes and tried to hear beyond the cotton that seemed to be shoved in his ears.

Someone was lightly slapping each side of his face. John forced his eyes open once more to find the face of Nurse Lonergen staring worriedly down at him, her green eyes wide and her pale eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth was moving, asking an unheard question over and over and over again. John's forehead furrowed as he tried to regain his hearing. Finally the water seemed to drain and he was bombarded with a cacophony of beeps and pings and cries and questions. John almost wishes he couldn't hear again.

But then Nurse Lonergen asked her question again and John was ecstatic he could hear her. "You were shot and we're trying, but the treatments won't hold!" For a millisecond, John is confused as to what she means by treatment, but then he recognizes, through the usual buzzing of his magic and the burning pain in his shoulder, a light tingling sensation. They were attempting to heal him, but it wouldn't hold. John could feel the foreign magic slide over his injury and just slip away into nothing.

It was a common occurrence for doctors to be horrible patients, but it could be argued that John has a good reason. John had learned at a young age that he was immune to all magical healing techniques. John was about six, Harry almost nine, and they were outside playing. Well John was chasing Harry when he tripped and fell after his foot caught on a rock. Instinctively, John had thrown his arms out to catch himself, but he had moved too late and ended up breaking his right arm.

Now one of the Watsons' neighbors was a retired healer and she offered to have a look at his arm, and do what she could, free of charge. The examination went over fine, but the second she tried to mend the hairline fracture, John, who had been so well behaved previously, began to wriggle in his seat. The old healer ignored the small movement and focused on the injury. But as time passed, John began to wiggle more, her brow began to furrow, and the old woman began to sweat.

After five minutes of silence, being quietly broken by John's hisses and grunts of pain, the retired healer carefully lowered John's arm and leaned back. Never for a second had Hamish or Annamarie thought their son was cured: he still had a pained expression and the woman looked flabbergasted. Instead, they both quietly sat down and inquired after the issue. The healer's mouth moved open and shut, much like a goldfish, but by the end of the hour the three adults had figured that, most likely due to John's unparalleled magical power, the poor lad was immune to magical mending.

From that day forward his parents always took their family to an "all-human" practice. Pretentious, and more than a bit racist, but completely necessary.

Now John had to explain through the haze of pain and medication that the magic wouldn't work. Hopefully the practitioners at hand would take him for his word and fix him up the old fashioned way. Hopefully the follow-up questions wouldn't be too intensive and could wait till John felt up to standards. _Hopefully this won't change too much,_ John thought wistfully, knowing deep down that there was no way he would be treated the same as before. He was a freak, even in the magical world.

**(A/N: Next chapter has Sherlock. :D Don't forget to review!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**(A/N: Such a great response. I love all of you who followed and favorited and reviewed and the whole shebang. Here's the next chapter with Sherlock, as promised. Hopefully it'll explain a bit more of this world. :3)**

Sherlock shifted in his seat, pulling himself deeper into the plush furniture. Mycroft sat across from him, lips pursed and contempt oh-so evident in his eyes and the way he tried to smirk when Sherlock's eyes narrowed. It was a common practice to wait to see who was willing to break the silence first. If Sherlock did, then he has no solid clue as to what Mycroft wants and is marginally interested. If Mycroft spoke first, then that means Sherlock had made up his mind and Mycroft would get nowhere in the conversation.

With a light flick of his wrist, and without taking his eyes off his younger brother, Mycroft summoned the tea to the small table between them. Sherlock scowled; Mycroft sneered. It was another habit for Mycroft to flaunt his natural abilities and cause Sherlock discomfort. Sherlock would retaliate by trying to out-deduce his brother as soon as the opportunity arose. Their childish feuds had not disappeared, but became more elaborate over time.

The silence dragged on, only broken by Mycroft's soft sipping, until Sherlock huffed in irritation and lurched to his feet.

"If you have nothing for me, _brother_," Sherlock always managed to make the word sound like an incurable disease, which it probably was in his eyes, "then I shall take my leave." Sherlock gave a small nod, buttoning his suit jacket before turning towards the door, and Mycroft smiled. _He's definitely curious,_ he thought, hiding his smirk by sipping tea.

"Oh no, Sherlock. I do have a case for you," Mycroft spoke up just as Sherlock was about to open the door. The man paused, turning his head slightly. "One I'm sure you will enjoy." Now Sherlock was turned fully, his right foot still pointed towards the door as if proving he could still leave. Mycroft smirked again. _As if he could._

"A case?" Sherlock took the bait. "Is it much like the last one with its politicians and scandal and lying wife who was cheating with their housemaid? Dull."

Mycroft smiled again, slowly standing and hooking his umbrella on his left arm. "Not quite," he murmured taking a step forward. "There is a corpse of a federal agent who was known for his energy manipulation as to aid weapons." Sherlock's eyebrows raised. Energy manipulation was difficult enough on inanimate objects, much less specializing in enhancement of them. "In any case, he was killed by, for all intents and purposes, his own weapon. Ballistic reports show the bullet is from his gun and it was the only bullet used in the clip."

Sherlock had fully turned and slowly made his way back to in front of his brother. "Suicide, plain and simple. I don't see why you would need me," he snapped. "Good day, _brother_," Sherlock said, nodding.

"One would assume so, if it weren't for the fact the gun was found halfway across the room," Mycroft called out. Sherlock paused. "Unfortunately that is all I am able to disclose, as it is a _very_ sensitive matter." Mycroft smiled to his shoes. _What was the common phrase? _He silently mused. _Ah, yes. 'Hook, line, and sinker.'_

Sherlock eagerly took the case.

* * *

A man ran out to the empty street, cursing under his breath. He turned and lifted an angry finger to the building he'd just vacated. "_YOU_ ARE THE LARGEST ARSEHOLE IN THE HISTORY OF LONDON!" he shouted, spittle flying. "PAY THE BLOODY RENT BY YOURSELF!" With that a window on the second floor screeched open and a head covered in dark curls popped out.

"Is it the papers on the wall?" the man asked, pale eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I did tell you that it was necessary for a case I am-"

"NO IT ISN'T ABOUT THE PAPERS!" the man on the street raged, throwing his hands in the air. "IT'S ABOUT THE BLEEDING MESS IN THE KITCHEN," ("Experiments," the other corrected.) "THE TOTAL LACK OF PRIVACY," ("It's hardly my fault you didn't clear your browsing history.") "YOU TORTURING THAT DAMNED INSTRUMENT AT ALL HOURS," ("It helps me process information quicker.") "AND THE FACT YOU USE THE FOOD AND TOILETRIES AND DON'T EVER FUCKING _REPLACE ANY OF IT_!" The man finished, heaving and glaring up at the man in the window.

The man simply rolled his pale eyes and sighed. "Honestly, Jerry. We can work through this. I'll start buying those items, although I rarely _do_ eat, and you can try to be more understanding of my idiosyncrasies." The man clapped his hands together and gave a blank smile. On the street "Jerry" froze and exhaled sharply.

"No, Sherlock. No," the man said, gritting his teeth. "Not this time. I'm done." He lifted his hand and waved before turning away only to pause a few paces later. "And it's JEFF!" Jeff added before walking to the main road to hail a taxi.

Sherlock pulled his head back in, ruffling his curls back into perfect disarray and straightening his suit. Surveying the room around him, Sherlock frowned. He had just gotten everything where he wanted it, where he could _find_ it, and now he'd have to move all over again. This one lasted almost a week, quite an accomplishments in Sherlock's books. Hopefully the next flat would have a larger living space and a better location. _I shouldn't have to walk two streets over to be able to hail a taxi_, Sherlock thought frowning.

Tilting his head just so, Sherlock took a few steps towards the far wall covered in papers and a map of London. On one side of the map was a web of photographs, some of a very bloody crime scene and others of multiple people, while on the other there were pages of data and observations, some typed and most handwritten on scraps of paper, connected to different points on the map with colorful pieces of yarn.

Mycroft had only spoke of one of the starting murders in the ever growing case; the file Sherlock had been given was a good few centimeters thick. Keith Finnegan, the federal agent that Mycroft _had_ mentioned, was not only an extremely talented energy manipulator, but also very high up in the hierarchy and therefore privy to very sensitive information. Looking at the crime scene, there was no sign of forced entry, physically or otherwise, and Finnegan had been found in comfortable sleepwear, so the murder was not only a colleague but a well-known one as Finnegan had not felt the urge to change before letting them into the flat.

Sherlock took a step back to survey the entirety of the information, taking note of locations and the victims. Of the eight people two were field agents, five worked in an office, and one had no obvious connection as she was a barista at a coffee shop a block away from the agency's main office. Of the eight five were female and three were male, Finnegan being the only field agent, which hints at the possibility that the murderer is male, but not confident enough in his fighting abilities to believe he can overcome well trained combatants. Finnegan was obviously an exception because not only was he caught unaware early in the morning, but also word of the murders didn't have time to spread so he had no reason to be on guard.

But those were only simple observations. The big clue was the fact that of all the victims, not one of them was benign. Four were energy manipulators, three were naturally magical, and only one was extraordinarily gifted. Ironically enough it was the simple barista that had the most power. The order of the murders, in reference to ability, went manipulator, manipulator, sorcerer, manipulator, witch, sorceress, and finally manipulator.

Now usually one could determine the ability and strength of a corpse by the residual energy that remained at least twenty-four hours after death, even more so if the person is exceptionally powerful. However, for some reason, none of the bodies had that aura of power although they were all found within five hours. That was what made the case so baffling. What could _possibly_ cause the magic to dissipate so quickly?

Sherlock had spent a good portion of his early years in the school library, the public library, and his family library, which wasn't as large as most would expect, researching and learning all he could about the natural abilities that so many people are graced with and what could possibly cause someone _not_ to have any. It was a bit of an obsession with him which is understandable. His entire family, for as far back as the Holmes can trace their lineage, has had at least basic energy manipulation. Until Sherlock.

For the first time in many generations, a benign was born into the Holmes family. When none of the machines had found any trace of abilities, the doctors had insisted that the machines can malfunction. When Sherlock had reached age three and still shown no sign of any sort of gift, the doctors had reminded his parents that there are always late bloomers. When Sherlock turned six, all hope was lost and, likewise, Sherlock lost his parents.

They did not die, not in the literal sense, and they still clothed and fed him, but they were never present for any of Sherlock's school gatherings or plays or _any_ of Sherlock's personal achievements. All of their time was focused on profit and Mycroft, pampering the pompous arse until he had grown the large head he still wears to this day.

The young Sherlock couldn't understand why so suddenly he became invisible to his parents when they had shown such interest before. At first he rushed to learn all he could, just in case there was some way he could impress them or somehow _learn_ energy manipulation. However, the more he knew, the more Sherlock understood that that wish never could be.

Magic was not the same as energy manipulation. Magic was a physical energy that flowed through ones veins alongside their blood. It was something that could be dispelled through small acts of telekinesis or larger acts of explosions or, rarely, transmutation. It was something that had to be released time and time again otherwise the bearer would grow restless, anxious, and irritable and eventually snap from the pressure. Magic manifested in the early years, sometime between the ages of six and eighteen months, and usually did so with a surge of emotion; which was, more often than not, anger. As always, there is a variance in power, but only significant strength would be enough to be elevated from the usual label of sorcerer or sorceress to the esteemed warlock or witch.

Energy manipulation, on the other hand, was the latent ability to take the energy of matter around and shape it. The weakest manipulator could, at the very least, move one object at a time by influencing the air around to push said object. Some are able to make the objects themselves move, but it took power and concentration. Very few could manipulate more than one object at a time. Even fewer could alter the makeup of an inanimate object like Finnegan could.

As far as science could tell, magic and energy manipulation were genetic and either a person has it or they don't. There was no way to gain the ability. In his studies, Sherlock had come across mentions of a prophecy, the last words of the great warlock Emrys, which foretold of a warlock with immense strength and unnatural abilities. There were a few books that had snippets of Emrys's final words, but none that Sherlock found had the entire prophecy. It didn't really matter anymore for Sherlock had deleted any trace of the fairytale long ago.

Shaking his head, Sherlock focused back on the victims. There had to be a pattern. There _had_ to. Sherlock slowly stepped back till his legs hit his favorite leather armchair. He lowered himself, drawing up his hands to rest, steepled, beneath his chin as he stared at the map before him. Exhaling slowly, Sherlock slipped into his mind palace.

**(A/N: That only covers the basics and there will be more clarification of the three types as I make it up... er... as I write more, I mean. . Anyways, if you have any questions, feel free to PM me to ask or just review. If you don't have questions, review anyways. :D)**


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: I have received such a wonderful response from my AMAZING readers. Thank you guys so much for your favorites and follows and reviews. Keep up the good work. Hope you like this chapter. :D)**

The screeching alarm cut through the silence of the bedsit, but was quickly shut off. John withdrew his arm and folded it back across his chest. He had been awake for the last few hours, but the night terrors that had interrupted his sleep had left him drained and unwilling to leave the thin mattress. Now that his alarm had gone off, John knew that if he didn't rouse himself he would remain in bed all day. He couldn't do that. Again. For the third day in a row.

So grumbling softly to himself, John lurched forward into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

When John returned to London, he had become a bitter and resentful man. But he hid it well under layers of political correctness, "doctor smiles", and masks of indifference he had gained mastery of in the army. But inside, John was damaged and hated himself for it. The bullet to his shoulder incapacitated him, but it was his magic that ended up getting him invalided. If he wasn't immune to the healers' efforts, then John wouldn't have had to suffer through mundane medicine practices.

Practices and techniques that left John stiff, immobilized, and permanently scarred.

And if that wasn't bad enough, John had somehow gained a limp; it had no reason to be there and it wouldn't go away. Not even magic could identify the source of the muscle strain. Medically speaking, John's leg was in perfect health and yet it continues to give out beneath him.

So John, crippled and aching, is sent back to London.

And he hates it. Because now he can no longer be Captain Watson, the respected warlock, or Doctor Watson, the talented healer. Instead John was back to his benign self, suppressing his powers and envying every adept able to use and flaunt their own. John is reminded of it every day and the very fact makes John ache in a way he didn't think possible.

He had a taste of freedom when enlisted and deployed and now the way it was before just wouldn't cut it. But there was nothing he could do except cause every loose item in his government funded bedsit, which wasn't very many, to levitate and fly about the room.

John rubbed his eyes before stretching, wincing when he pulled at the scar on his left shoulder. He absently pressed at the angry mark as his left hand reached for the aluminum cane the waited by his nightstand. He paused a moment, looking down at the very object that visually represented all the hate and despair now festering inside of him. Shaking his head, John firmly plants it onto the ground and leverages himself up.

"I really need to get out of these four walls," John mutters as he shuffles to the kitchen, just a few meters away, to make himself some much needed tea.

* * *

John carefully placed his RAMC mug into the sink. He had been back in London for coming on a month now and he had had no luck on the job hunt or flat searching. John woke every morning, forced himself to get up and go looking for something to occupy his time, and then came back to the same bedsit to lay in the same uncomfortable bed and experience the same nightmares. It was getting repetitive and it seems with each passing day his leg was getting worse, not better.

Staring off into space, John contemplates going back out that night. Perhaps he was just looking at the wrong time. John violently shook his head and then flinched when he heard something shatter behind him. Turning slowly, John saw the broken lamp against the far wall. Sighing, John pinched between his eyebrows and then rubbed his forehead. He had neglected to release some of his magic and the excess energy was fighting to escape, using any sharp movement as an excuse.

John sniffed slightly, pursing his lips towards the mess. _I hated that lamp anyways,_ he thought with a shrug before turning back towards the front door. John ambled over, pulled on his coat, and left again, locking the door behind him. Stepping outside, John took a deep breath of the smoggy London air. As much as he hated his current miserable existence, John had missed London. Just a touch.

Looking about the empty street, John grimaced. During the day it was difficult enough to hail a cab, John was short and this wasn't the best side of town, but at night it was bloody impossible. So with a huff, and some magic causing the bins on the opposite side of the street to rattle noisily, John set off towards the city proper still leaning heavily on his damned cane.

John didn't get too far before he noticed the dark figure walking in front of him and a second walking not too far behind. Hiding a smile, John increased his pace and, when the man behind him did the same, he let some of his magic leak to his fingers, ready to use. Not one minute later, the man behind had caught up and the one in front spun on the spot and pushed John into a side alley.

"Roit, ol' man. Give us tha money," the one that shoved John growled. John winced slightly. Something happened between getting shot and arriving in London that resulted in him prematurely grey and with a few more creases on his face than he cares to admit. "C'mon. You 'eard me. Tha money. NOW!" At this, the two men both pulled out weapons, one had a switchblade and the other had a gun.

John eyed the blade. "Well that's not going to help much if he's got a gun, is it?" he asked with a smirk. The one with the blade glanced down at the small knife, to his companion's gun, and then back.

"Oi. He's got a point," the man said with a sour face. "Gimmie the gun, Al. You can't even shoot tha' good." He reached for the weapon, but it was snatched out of reach.

"No, Danny. It's mine," Al hissed. "But that ain't tha problem, issit? We need to finish dis an' go." He turned back to John who simply watched on with amusement, cane happily hanging from the crook of his elbow. "Give us tha money, or I'll shoot."

"Yeah, but you'll miss," Danny insisted. "I wouldn't. Me Pa learned me proper." He reached for the gun again. What ensued was a small squabble between the two failed muggers that left John barely holding back laughter. It ended with Danny bearing the gun and his friend reluctantly brandishing the small blade. They both faced John again.

"Okay," Al said, looking slightly surprised that John was still there. "_Now_ give us tha money."

"Yeah, or I'll shoot you dead," Danny added with a smirk.

John smiled, eyes hard. "No you won't," he said simply.

"Oh yeah?" Danny pressed. "Wha' makes you so fuckin' sure?" He sneered, brandishing the gun.

John tilted his head up. "Because I've got magic." He splayed his fingers, letting some of the energy humming inside of him, begging for release, to trickle out, causing some pebbles on the ground to hop about and the skip on the far end to shake once.

Danny laughed, not noticing the small display. "Is tha' so? Well guess wha'?" He leaned in, "So do we, so we ain't scared for nuffin'." Al, who _did_ notice the phenomena, began tugging at Danny's sleeve, shaking his head.

"Mate, I fink we'd be'er go," he insisted a bit shakily.

"Naw," Danny brushed the boy's hand off and eyed John again. "Dis one's ripe for tha pickin'. 'e's _beggin'_ for it."

"You really should listen to Al here," John said, nodding towards the trembling man. "He's got it right." John let some more magic out, relishing the warmth that spread through him at the release, and lifted the dumpster behind him off the ground about half a meter before letting it fall back with a crash. Danny noticed that and blanched.

"Wha' tha fuck?" he wheezed, his hand now shaking with the gun still trained towards the calm ex-soldier. "I don' know nobody who can do dat." John smiled, eyes flat. "You… you're…" Danny began to stutter. By this point Al had run off, but Danny hadn't seemed to notice.

"Danny," John says calmly, holding up his hands in a sign of peace. "I just want to go. Let me by. No trouble, no bullets, no blood." Danny began to slowly nod, John's soft doctor voice calming him slightly. That is until John took a step forward.

Danny instantly tensed again, finger jumping to the trigger but not actually pulling. "DON'T MOVE ANOTHER MUSCLE!" he screeched. John kept his hands up and his head down, a kind smile playing his lips, and took another step forward.

**_BANG!_**

Danny flinched and stumbled back a step from the recoil. He may have been taught by his father, but he hadn't shot in a while, so it was a touch unexpected. When he looked back up at John, expecting at least a bleeding man, both his jaw and gun dropped.

Before him stood a 5'7" man with grey hair, a wrinkled face, and a _bloody _cane in perfect condition. Not even grazed. However, his hands were still up. Before them hovered the 9mm bullet that was discharged, still spinning but rapidly slowing, encased in a small ball of golden energy. Danny froze, watching the bullet as it finally stopped and fell to the ground with a small "clink". His eyes followed it as it went down and then flicked back up to John who simply stood there, arms back at his side, hands perfectly steady, and his hard blue eyes screaming _'You have no idea what I am capable of'_.

Danny turned and ran, not looking back once.

As soon as the footsteps had receded completely, John sighed and let his shoulders relax. Smiling to himself, he turned headed back towards his little bedsit. Cane twirling all the way.


	4. Chapter 4

**(A/N: I have received such praise I fear you may have permanently stained my cheeks red. Well here's the next chapter. I hope it meets your expectations. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN, nor never wish to be, IN A FIGHT SO ALL MANEUVERS ARE COMPLETELY OF MY OWN IMAGINATION. So they could work or they might not. I don't really know. :/**

**I have become accustomed to the 1k+ views I've been blessed to receive these last three days, so I pushed myself to finish this when I just wanted to go on tumblr and stare at Benny's face.)**

Sherlock glared down at the cowering man before him. "Richard Evans," he began, causing the man on the ground to flinch, "you have provided me with a great distraction, but you are probably the most _idiotic _and _simplistic_ criminal I have ever had the misfortune to encounter." And it had been an exciting case. It took Sherlock somewhere around a week to work his way through all of the victims' coworkers and common acquaintances, far too long in his opinion. One night, when pondering the case with the aid of a cigarette or two, Sherlock was struck with clarity. The "go-fer".

The company had begun taking recommended interns maybe a month or two before the murders began and, as most internships go, the few taken into the office became the "go-fer", the coffee catcher, the message bringer, the one that has to do _whatever_ he is told. So reviewing the interns taken in, Sherlock found that one Richard Evans was the only one that regularly got coffee from the shop a block away. After a quick background check that involved Sherlock interviewing _far_ too many people for his tastes, Sherlock determined that Richard was a textbook case of magic-envy.

Everything fell into place after that. Sherlock quickly deduced that Richard had commandeered an illegal amulet that would allow him to "suck", for lack of a better word, the residual magic from the corpse. The amulet, unfortunately, used up the magic quickly and so Richard had to keep killing to keep it charged. Sherlock entered on Richard standing over his next victim. Which led to a chase. Which led to Richard's mistake in attacking Sherlock with his sluggish, stolen magic.

Sherlock sneered down at Richard, who sounded as if he was crying now, before turning and sauntering past Lestrade. Sherlock tossed the Detective Inspector the amulet he had been twirling on his finger just moments ago. "There you go, Lestrade. One murderer and his illegal amulet."

Lestrade watched on silently as Sherlock brushed past the rest of the police force and hailed a cab. The man was a bit of a mystery himself to the DI who, despite knowing Sherlock for coming on four years, still wasn't sure if he was a manipulator, a sorcerer, or, Lestrade dreads to think, a warlock. Shaking his head slightly, Lestrade turns to his men and yelled at them to pick up the pace and do their bloody jobs.

In the taxi, Sherlock slipped his hand into his shirt and pulled out a cracked amulet of his own. He tutted softly, running his thumb over the fissure in the amber stone, before quickly tugging and breaking the silver chain around his neck. Sniffing slightly, Sherlock hopped out the cab, paid the driver, and promptly tossed the broken artifact in the nearest bin.

Despite his deep loathing for his older brother and his meddling, Mycroft's steady supply of protective amulets was definitely a benefit when it came to Sherlock's work. More often than not, a case would end with a chase which would end with the suspect cornered which would cause the guilty party to fight. Mycroft, being the British Government, is able to get his hands on strong amulets that absorb attack magic, at the very least. Once he gave Sherlock an amulet that would absorb the attack and then store it for later to help stitch up small wounds. That one lasted about two weeks.

Sherlock went through protective amulets quicker than he did flatmates. _Speaking of which,_ Sherlock paused to look up at the building before him. The brick front was simplistic yet seemed to contain a certain charm. _An anti-inflammatory charm, if my readings are correct,_ Sherlock thought with an approving nod. Being benign didn't mean that you were completely oblivious. Technically, everybody has the potential to _read_ magical residue. Sherlock just chose to hone that ability, partially in compensation of his lack of skills and partly to aid him with the Work.

Hopping up the two steps, Sherlock sharply knocked on the door twice. From within he heard a voice call for a minute. Not seconds later, the dark door opened to reveal a very motherly looking woman who, upon seeing Sherlock, smiled wide. She pulled him into a hug, but quickly released him, and welcomed the man inside.

"I was hoping you'd come round, Sherlock," the woman was tittering as she popped into her flat. "When I put out the ad, I wasn't sure what to expect," she continued as she came back with a key. "You can get all sorts nowadays, so when you called me up a couple of days ago I was more than happy to hear from you." The woman unlocked the door, first the bolt, then the handle, and finally muttering a few choice words that would disarm the alarm.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, I just entered the market for new lodging, so I took the opportunity when I saw it," Sherlock responded with a small smile. This rambling woman seemed to bring out a softer side of Sherlock. Swinging the door open, Mrs. Hudson stepped to the side and allowed Sherlock to walk in. He took slow steps, taking in the wide kitchen counter, the high ceilings, the open sitting room, and the Victorian wallpaper. A smile spread across Sherlock's face. This would do nicely.

Mrs. Hudson watched Sherlock a moment before zipping about the room herself, opening the maroon curtains and swatting away the dust it stirred with a light cough. "I know it's a bit musty at the moment, but just give it a little light for a bit and it'll be much better." She gave a smile before turning and stopping with a frown. "Oh. I'll have to do something about that _dreadful_ wallpaper," Mrs. Hudson muttered to herself before turning back to Sherlock. "So, dearie. What do you think?"

Sherlock faced Mrs. Hudson. "I'll take it," he said with a wide smile.

"Well, let's go downstairs and talk about the price," Mrs. Hudson said, returning the smile. "I can cut you a special deal because of the whole thing in Florida, but it may still be a bit pricy." She began descending to her flat below, Sherlock obediently following. "Maybe you can get yourself a flatmate. A nice woman would do you good, or a bloke if that's what you're into."

Sherlock frowned. A flatmate would be most beneficial, but he didn't want to risk having to move again. This was most definitely the best flat for him and if another flatmate ran out on him, Sherlock didn't want to move. Besides, who would want to be his flatmate?

* * *

Sherlock's fingers tapped out Beethoven's_ Kreutzer Sonata _on the microscope as he tried to focus on the slide. However his efforts were futile for a few seconds later, Sherlock was pacing across the room and snatching up his violin. He'd been in Mrs. Hudson's flat for coming on a week now and _still _couldn't find a suitable flatmate. Sherlock had even resorted to mentioning it in an "offhand" comment to Mike Stamford. Ever since Mycroft had frozen his trust fund account, he has had to resort to tolerating another person's presence just to live in an acceptable flat.

It was ridiculous and the current bane of Sherlock's existence.

But that wasn't Sherlock's only problem at the moment. Lestrade hadn't contacted Sherlock since the Evan's case a week ago and now he was out of experiments. Every second spent without a case simply increased the ever-growing desire to resort to less legal ways of stimulation. But Mycroft had paid off all the dealers in a ten mile radius and had constant surveillance on Sherlock anyways, so it was just a scratch he couldn't itch. The nicotine patches didn't even begin to soothe him.

Desperate beyond comprehension, Sherlock dug in his robe pocket and punched out Lestrade's number into his mobile. He held the phone to his ear, hand squeezing the plastic as he heard the electronic ring.

A click then- "Hullo?"

"Lestrade. Tell me you have a case for me," Sherlock interjected before the man could get another word in.

Heavy sigh. "Listen, Sherlock. I don't have any homicides to give you and-"

"You've yawned twice in the last minute and you are drawing out your vowels longer than normal, so you are obviously experiencing exhaustion," Sherlock began to deduce. "Ergo you _do_ have a case and it is a touch more difficult than you signed up for. And when you run into a case that you can't handle, you come to me." He paused, giving Lestrade a generous five seconds to process what he had just said. "So come consult me."

Lestrade almost went to protest, but was interrupted by his own yawn. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll be at your flat in ten minutes."

"Oh, I'm not there anymore," Sherlock informed with a shrug, ignoring Lestrade's groan and 'Really, Sherlock? Already?!'. "I am now at 221B Baker Street. Just knock." Not waiting for a response, Sherlock promptly hung up and headed towards his bedroom to dress. His excited smile grew with each step.

* * *

John rolled his shoulders and popped his neck. Shaking out his arms, he moved from foot to foot, keeping on the balls of his feet. And he waited.

**_DING_**! went the bell and John charged. He effortlessly dodged the wild swing to his face and dashed around the side of his assailant. Two quick jabs to the ribs and a swift kick to the leg. The man spun about, wincing when he put too much strain on the muscle John had just bruised. Another wild swing, this time towards John's gut. Instead of dodging this one, John chose to use the large man's momentum against him.

A firm hand to the crook of the man's elbow and a small push on the man's hand resulted in the man striking himself. John glanced up at the clock on the wall as the larger man cradled his sprained arm and decided he'd played around enough. Two steps forward, one hand on the shoulder, and John slammed the man onto the padded floor with nothing more than a quick hook of his leg and a little pressure from his hand.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the spar and John's victory. The man still on the ground groaned and John offered a hand, his right one as his left shoulder was starting to ache. The man waved it away, but gave a small nod of thanks and John smiled. He quickly left the ring, snatching up the waiting towel as he headed towards the showers.

John eagerly shed his sweaty clothes and stepped into the stall. Closing his eyes, he let the cool water wash over his happily aching muscles. Thinking back on the last few months, John couldn't help but smile. He'd come so far.

After that first run-in with the failed mugging, John had gone out each night. Whether seeking danger or the chance to let off some steam and magic, John still wasn't sure, but either way he wasn't ever disappointed. Each night, without fail, something happened that resulted in John flaunting his powers, just a touch, and his limp vanishing for the rest of the day. At first, John had no idea why it affected him in such a positive manner, but after a few weeks John figured that he had grown accustomed to the almost constant rush of adrenaline that accompanied the ever present sand and upon returning to London, he began to experience withdrawal.

It was an odd way to look at John's insatiable desire for danger, but it was the best he had. So he stuck with it.

However, after a while someone must have caught wind of his 'heroics' and spread the word because all crime in a two mile radius came to a standstill. Not even purses were being snatched. That was a bad week for John as it left his limp worse than ever and he had to struggle more and more each day just to get out of bed.

Finally, one late night at a pub, a solution arose. John had been sipping a pint when he was approached by a familiar face with a proposition. On one of the rare magicless nights, John had singlehandedly disarmed and incapacitated three separate men. Their boss had watched on with a mix of horror and awe until John turned towards him, ready to finish. The man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. John, being a kind and forgiving man at heart, gave it and the man happily sprang to his feet, introduced himself as Mark, and promised that John would see him again before dashing off into the night.

So when Mark approached John in the pub, he had been wary, but willing to listen. The man came offering compliments and praises of John's superior fighting skills, all of which John brushed away without blinking. "What do you want, Mark?" John asked sharply. Mark swallowed thickly and handed John a bright red flyer with a shaking hand.

It was an invitation to a fighting ring.

Normally John would have instantly turned away the offer, but he was desperate and the fights would be in a controlled environment and he was less likely to die. But he also wasn't allowed to use magic. John sighed heavily, glancing over the basic rules on the back, but found himself honestly considering it. After a moment or two, John looked back up to Mark and inquired, "So where is this, then?"

From that moment on, John became a regular on the roster and an obvious fan favorite.

Now here he was, four weeks in with a winning streak that seemed to have no end in sight, and John was having the time of his life. He felt more alive after each spar and his leg bothered him less and less, although he still relied on the cane until about four in the afternoon. The reward cash didn't dampen his spirit either.

John gave a happy sigh, turning off the shower and wrapping the towel round his waist before stepping out onto the cold tile. He quickly dressed and headed to the office to collect his winnings. As much as the ring had helped him, John didn't trust it entirely. It was an underground ring that probably dabbled in more than a few less than legal activities. But John didn't ask, so they didn't tell. And John never lingered.

After the always uncomfortable handshake with the ring's leader that lasted a touch longer than John though acceptable, John began to make is way back to the surface. He turned a corner, his cane hooked around his arm, and promptly ran into someone which resulted in John on the floor with a sore bum and freshly aching leg.

John clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane much to his chagrin, and, turning to apologize to whomever he'd ran into, froze.

* * *

Sherlock was befuddled. How Lestrade couldn't figure out the case was simply astounding. It was a straightforward infiltration and gathering of evidence. Easy steps, one two three. Even a child could do it. _Well maybe not a child_, Sherlock thought with a grimace as another wave of perspiration and testosterone slithered under his nose.

Lestrade had been following tips of an illegal gambling operation and had the man in charge in his sights. Unfortunately, just tips wasn't enough to convict the man, so Lestrade needed evidence. This is where Sherlock came in. Using his acting skills, Sherlock posed as a native Londoner looking for a job, no questions asked and no digging. They had an opening for an on-call janitor and immediately hired Sherlock, or Buzz as that was Sherlock's alias.

It took less than three seconds to see that Lestrade was actually right, not that Sherlock would admit it to his face. In less than three hours, Sherlock had learned the faces and names of all the money handlers. In less than three days, Sherlock had gathered enough hard evidence to condemn the ringleader.

On his last day as Buzz, Sherlock changed into his usual day clothes and, after removing any indication of his presence, rushed to leave. However, halfway to the stairs leading out, Sherlock was suddenly struck by a deduction he had made automatically in passing. He stopped, half turned to face back into the club. Sherlock really only toyed with the idea of _actually_ leaving for maybe less than half a second, it really wasn't a choice at all, before making a full turn and dashing back into the stench.

He had to get to the manager's office, that much he knew, but Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what was going to happen. There was only so much a man could deduce from a glance. With each step, Sherlock drew nearer to the office, the soon-to-be crime scene, and that just added fuel to the flames. He practically leapt down the last set of stairs and barreled around a corner only to collide with another person, sending them to the ground. _Great,_ Sherlock thought his a hiss, _another delay. I'm not going to __**make**__ it!_

And then he cared to look at who he had crashed into just moments ago.

And then Sherlock had to look again.

**(A/N: I just realized that my timing seems a bit off. I've said that Sherlock only took about a week for the Evans case, but John has already been in London for a month. I just wanted to clarify: while it may seem a bit chronological, it's not. John was really, until this chapter, a month or two behind Sherlock. Anyhow, now they're all at the same time, so it's aaaaaaaaaall good. BJ**

**Oh, and I don't know about in the UK, but here in the US gambling is illegal unless you have the proper papers.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**(A/N: Experiencing serious block with my other stories. I ****_know_**** what I want to write and I ****_know_**** where I'm going, but I just can't figure how to fucking ****_WRITE IT!_**** And it's really annoying. Sorry. Hope you guys like this chapter. Whatever…)**

John swallowed down his apology. Before him stood the newest employee of the club and easily one of the most despised. In less than a week, the arrogant sod had made enemies of just about every shifty character who worked or visited on a regular basis. Which was basically everyone. John had done his best to avoid the man, making sure to leave a room whenever he entered it. But John wasn't stupid; he left with his head held high.

From what he'd seen of Buzz, the man was clever. John knew that if he kept his eyes on the ground when passing the man, Buzz would notice. But because John made sure to meet his gaze and nod with a small smile, the stranger never made note of John. For once, obscurity was a benefit.

But now John was face to face with the man and completely unsure what to say. So instead, John let his gaze drop slowly to the floor and, in doing so, noticed something very odd. Normally Buzz was clad simply in filthy work boots, baggy jeans, and a ratty wife beater and John just assumed that it was the best the man had, especially if one considered that his apparent source of income was janitorial service. However, looking at him now, John feels he was either very mistaken or they were all horribly duped.

Buzz, or whoever he was, was now clad in a very form fitting two-piece charcoal suit with dress shoes, a tight fitting purple shirt, and a large grey coat complete with a blue scarf secured around his long neck. John's eyes quickly snapped back up to the man's face. The dark hair that was once pulled back with a sweat-stained headband was a far cry from what now fell in perfectly sculpted waves, framing his pale face and high cheekbones.

But the most disturbing thing about the transformation was the undercurrent pull that John felt on his magic. In the two seconds he had been facing the man, John had triangulated the cause of the odd tugging sensation to the man's left breast pocket. _He must have an artifact of some sort,_ John concluded, giving the pale eyed man a cautious look. _So not anywhere near who he seems to be. _John had to hide a bitter smile. _I know how it is._

"Well done," the man said softly, his voice surprisingly deep and shockingly pleased sounding. John shot him a confused look. "You obviously aren't as thick as the rest of the _people_ here," he continued, practically spitting the word 'people' as if it were an abomination.

"I'm sorry, what?" John finally managed, earning him a disappointed glance.

"Maybe not then," the man hummed. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I'd _really_ love to stay and chat," John highly doubt that he did, "but I've got to run. Someone's going to die in," Holmes glanced down at the watch that adjourned his wrist, "a minute and a half. Evening, doctor." With a smirk and a wink, the man slid past John and dashed off down the hallway.

John remained frozen where he was, stunned and processing. Blinking rapidly, he came back to himself and turned to go. It was none of his business what occurs here after he leaves. John's only concern is release. His only concern… His only… _Sod it,_ John thought, gritting his teeth.

Turning about face, John began to jog to catch up with the tall man. Just as John turned a corner and saw the "consulting detective", whatever the hell that is, waiting with a smirk, a scream rang out. The younger man flashed an excited grin to John and took off again, John close on his heels and muttering "dammit," all the way.

* * *

Sherlock swallowed a smile as he heard the army doctor quietly cursing to himself as he followed. When he had first began working undercover, Sherlock half expected that finding information would be challenging, but after seeing just three of the regular customers the simplicity of this case was overwhelming. Honestly it was a bit of weakness of Sherlock's, his expectation that everything would be clever, but to be fair it was his only weakness.

In any case, Sherlock quickly picked apart each of the customers and the fighters, and had no qualms of doing so publicly. Well, all excluding one. This fighter, whose name Sherlock didn't even try to remember, would always finish his matches in less than a minute, never socialized with _anyone_, and always left the room as soon as Sherlock entered. Initially Sherlock thought nothing of it, not even bothering to deduce the man more than the casual glance (_fights for adrenaline fix, sees money as a perk, doesn't trust the 'boss'_).

But now, after _really_ looking at this man, Sherlock is regretting that decision. There was a moment, back in that hallway, that Sherlock almost passed over him again, but something, probably the way his face fell when he realized it was Sherlock, made him properly deduce the quiet fighter. What Sherlock saw was surprising to say the least.

_Army doctor, honorable discharge. Invalided home with bullet wound – healed by benign practices with is unusual due to the consistent presence of a healer. Psychosomatic limp, easily fixed by adrenaline but doses don't last. Far cleverer than one would expect, if his cuffs are anything to go by. _The deductions flowed freely into Sherlock's mind. _Looking for a better flat, especially now that he has the fights' reward money, but not sure where to start or if he can afford what he wants._ Sherlock frowned as the last deduction flashed into his head. He wouldn't normally take note of something like that. _Completely benign and carries no amulet, charm, or anything that is spelled. _Final deduction made, Sherlock smiled down at the army doctor.

The man before him looked the consulting detective up and down, just as Sherlock had done to him. Then his eyes flicked to Sherlock's face, down to his shoes, and then to his left breast pocket where Sherlock hid Mycroft's latest amulet. _So he has at least touch of perception, which is more than the general populace. _The man's dark blue eyes moved back to Sherlock's pale ones and were hard and suspicious.

Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation to test a theory and so he quickly baited the man before dashing about the corner towards the manager's office. He stopped halfway down the hall, patiently waiting for the man to follow him. The seconds ticked by and Sherlock began to grow worried that he might not come, but then Sherlock heard the heavy footfalls of the doctor. He couldn't help but smile wide when he saw the man round the corner.

Sherlock was about to congratulate the man on his decision when a scream rang out and Sherlock was off again, his new companion close behind.

They dashed about the corner and the man came to a stop just past the doorway, taking in the scene. Sherlock on the other hand, kept moving, circling the room and quickly deducing all he could from the people, the body, and their surroundings. In the center of the floor was the body of the manager's PA, eyes wide and mouth opened with a small pool of blood sluggishly collecting by his neck. The woman who screamed had backed herself into a corner in an effort to get away from the victim.

After a second or two, the man shook himself out of the daze he was in and stepped forward till he was next to Sherlock. "Murder?" he murmured, not wanting to scare any of the onlookers.

Sherlock tilted his head a touch and smiled. "No," he responded softly. "Not quite." Before the doctor could ask for any sort of clarification, Sherlock spun around, deftly pulling out his travel sized tool bag. He crouched by the body, retrieving his magnifying glass and proceeded to inspect the cadaver.

The deductions came swiftly and with each revelation, Sherlock's smile grew wider. It took until he was halfway through picking apart the man before him that Sherlock heard the doctor speaking. Sherlock stood and spun, coat flaring, and glared at the man who was now on the phone.

"Yes, Scotland Yard? I'm calling to report a possible murder." He was speaking urgently into the receiver (Sherlock was slightly surprised and pleased that he said "possible murder". It meant he was paying attention). "Yes. My name is John Watson." Sherlock blinked and quickly set the name to memory. _Such a dull, boring, simple name for such an interesting man._ Just as John finished giving the address, Sherlock snatched the phone away.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. Send Lestrade," he demanded before hanging up. Sherlock turned to hand the phone back to John and was faced with a look of pure irritation. "What?"

"You didn't have to take it," John admonished. "You could have just asked." Sherlock just blinked. _Interesting._

Sherlock tilted his head slightly and gestured to the body behind him. "Care to take a look?" It was John's turn to blink.

His eyes were stony as he shifted slightly before snapping, "What?"

"Would _you-_," Sherlock began to repeat slowly, but was quickly cut off.

"No, I know what you said," John interrupted, holding up a hand. "What I meant was, why would I 'take a look'?" Sherlock gave a smile and leaned in towards the army doctor.

"Because you're an army doctor invalid home due to a bullet wound to your left shoulder," Sherlock began, pointedly nodding towards the hidden scar. "Because you fight here not for the money, although you enjoy the extra income, but for the adrenaline fix that allows you to walk without that cane." John shifted uncomfortably. "And because you're just as curious as I am," he whispered, eyes trained on the shorter man. John stood there and looked up at Sherlock, his mouth pressed in a thin line. His eyes narrowed slightly and his brows drew together. "So, I ask again: care to take a look?" Sherlock asked, clicking the 'k'.

Suddenly John's face smoothed out and he huffed out a small laugh. "Oh, _God _yes," John emphatically agreed before making his way beside the body.

**(A/N: And an extra happy birthday to Lockie! Hope you enjoy the celebration of surviving another year! This is my present to you! :D)**


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